


A Fistful of Feathers

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens
Genre: American History, M/M, Old West
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-15
Updated: 2004-10-15
Packaged: 2019-02-11 19:44:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12942369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: Frontiers lie between a rock called heaven and a hard place called home. (The New Mexico Territory, 1874)





	A Fistful of Feathers

Crowley had slept through most of the nineteenth century.

It seemed to be a dubious achievement, certainly, but also one that Aziraphale was forced to find some amount of merit in.

There was a certain smell to it, for instance. Sleep spoke of pressed linens and the sweet tang of dreams, winds and muted rain across wild expanses of meadowlands, of wide wings and the absence of guilt that he sensed in mortals as they forgot themselves. There were halls of memory, lanes of books both old and new.

Perhaps it could be said in turn that large feather beds were appeasing in an aesthetic sense, and when it came down to it, he was impressed to find that coverlets were available in such an expansively dazzling array of colors and styles. He had even found that such frivolous locales were rather comfortable spots for devouring fresh volumes, provided that he crossed his ankles just so and lulled his head against a soft, mammoth pillow, never thinking to close his eyes.

In all honesty, though, Aziraphale felt a bit dispossessed by Crowley’s extended absence.

Although the quiet years went by in such a way that the angel was able to read himself to the point of saturation, both in bed and out of it, all but the most vigilant of animal-enthusiasts would be forced to admit that feeding the ducks at St. James’ Park looses some of its charm when the task is done alone.

In sporadic fits of critical recklessness, he tried to combat this fact by taking up the gavotte and beginning to peruse back-issue journals relating to the studies and cross-references of the mystic significance of German Romanticism.

There were even various moments over the years when he resolved to pay Crowley a visit, to knock bold-fistedly on his door with the well-founded hope of not causing too much damage. He imagined the scenes in dry theatrics: Crowley’s eyes gleaming as he howled with rage at being inappropriately woken or, conversely, Crowley sympathetically asking him out to eat, the airy wisps of their fervent conversation ranging from politics to poetics as the night became morning and light streamed through the high windows of Aziraphale’s mind in fractured, violet spokes. Mostly, though, Crowley tended to just howl with rage.

Aziraphale never actually went through with it, of course.

It seemed an unnecessary risk.

Decades passed.

When Crowley suddenly appeared on his stoop as a specter borne by the evening mists, eyes faintly red, it was all Aziraphale could do to agilely usher him inside and onto the settee. He had felt that he should say something rather than just stare expectantly, but Crowley was obviously not in the highest of spirits.

He said as much, his voice vaguely cracked with disuse as he explained the events leading up to that moment, the facts of his being woken up by the whim of his superiors and so callously given orders.

Aziraphale had listened to Crowley’s grievances, sipping his tea sympathetically and tossing words of acknowledgement into the air as the other paused. “How remarkably indecent,” he agreed regularly, masking his secret thrill as he added, “and such a regrettable lack of courtesy, not to say that I’ve any clout in such a thing, mind you.”

It had lately been a rather nice dream, Crowley claimed: the stars reflected over the sea and the sound of waters lapping against a ship under full sail; there were strategies to be worked out, treasuries to be plundered in the unconscious hours of high moonlight. There were heavy canons and splintered hulls, pressed gold and the plank, and Aziraphale nodded emphatically.

He found Crowley’s fervor to be quite endearing, albeit rather cantankerous.

It somehow came as little surprise, then, that Crowley should underhandedly convince him to join in on a short trek to America. Not as an accomplice, he was assured, but instead as a moral observer.

Aziraphale packed his suitcase, debating on circumstances of weather and altitude until the very end. How could one possibly know what to expect in such a place as the frontier?

Indeed, he found himself tracing over the very same riddle as the proposed short trek straddled an increasingly impressive length of time, though even by the bare means of his principles, Aziraphale was quietly glad to have agreed to it.

Besides which, they had arrived.

Their coach lurched to a halt and Crowley shifted beside him, struggling to see through the grime that had accumulated across the thick window glass. He smiled lecherously, stepping onto the street.

With a backward glance, Aziraphale followed him.

It was a clapboard town, grey and umber, hung with the smell of sage and gunpowder. The sun held everything by its bright talons, bringing to mind the hard shadows and cracked edges of a picture postcard sold in a bric-à-brac shop. There was something of the pulse of discovery to the air, the whispered promises of wealth and imagination yet untapped, and a sorrow held within the shifting clouds of dust.

The dust was quite insufferable.

Aziraphale sneezed repeatedly, his frame shaking, and rubbed his fingertips across the tear-streaked crease of his eyes. After a pause, he pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve, brightly embroidered with birds of paradise, and gingerly wiped at his nose.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Are you coming?” he asked after a moment, extending his hand with tired encouragement as they stopped before an aging saloon.

“Ah.” Aziraphale hesitated, dashing a hand across his brow as he gazed beyond the swinging half-doors; through the dim light and raucous laughter, he observed games of cards and women clad in brightly billowing satin, grimy hands held to holsters and the jangling tune of a player piano. He grimaced. “I think I’ll... visit the local book vendor. I’m certain to find something there that will make the effort of coming all the way out here worthwhile.” Rubbing his palms against his trousers distastefully, he added, “Might I meet you in an hour or so? That should give you ample time to...”

“Yes?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat.

Crowley grinned, patting Aziraphale’s shoulder heavily. “As you like.”

“An hour, then.”

Nodding offhandedly, Crowley disappeared inside.

“Right,” Aziraphale said. “Right.”

With a smooth turn of his heel, he descended the stairs, carefully striding across the sandy stretch of the street. He approached a pair of men as they stood beneath a bristling cottonwood tree, their hearty voices catching against the high boughs and the cracked boards of the building behind them. Dirt was strewn across their brows, giving their ruddy faces a dry, ashen hue.

Aziraphale stood before them, waiting for some acknowledgement of his presence. Minutes passed. He smiled good-humoredly, finally breaking in, “I say, fellows, would you be so kind as to direct me to the nearest retailer of rare publications?”

The men slowly turned their gazes upon Aziraphale, though they remained silent.

Glass shattered somewhere down the street.

“That is,” the angel faltered, clasping his hands behind his back with feigned conviction, “I hope to find a bookshop.”

The men looked to each other once more as though processing their thoughts collectively, their brows held arduously high, and they began to laugh.

It was a tarnished sound, arid as the desert wind.

Aziraphale recognized it.

Horses drinking from a nearby trough glanced up too, water streaming from their mouths, at once seeming to join in the humor.

“Oh.” Aziraphale swallowed. “I see. Well, I do thank you for your time... I trust that you’ll have a pleasant evening.”

As he walked away, the men continued to laugh. Without turning, he sensed that their mirth was cut dramatically and quite irrevocably short as they found themselves to be in the direct path of the contents of an overturned slop-bucket, poured from the lofty heights of a nearby window.

Aziraphale smiled slowly.

His pace brisk, he again found himself on the threshold of the saloon. With a deep breath, he stepped inside; he glanced around the room and crossed to the bar as he spotted Crowley there, placidly seated amidst the unremitting heat and energy.

“You didn’t find what you had hoped to,” Crowley said matter-of-factly, not bothering to look up from his drink.

Aziraphale didn’t answer, allowing his gaze to linger on a large, glowering stag’s head that was mounted to the wall; it was flanked on either side by gleaming bottles and smudged glasses. “A bit tatty, isn’t it?” he commented at last, taking a seat.

Crowley shrugged noncommittally. “Rustic.”

“In any event, I should like to have a word with the proprietor. There must be some mistake,” Aziraphale paused, catching his reflection in a nearby mirror. With a careful hand, he smoothed the dust from his hair, straightening the bowed silk at his neck, and sighed as a figure suddenly obstructed his view. He looked up. “Yes?”

“What’ll it be, pal?” The barkeep eyed Aziraphale with thinly veiled amusement.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, undauntedly smoothing his sleeves. “Although it’s not yet evening, I think a bit of daring is in order.” He chuckled to himself. “I would love to try your finest pousse-café, preferably with parfait d'amour and...” he trailed off, seeing the barkeep’s eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline and his jaw drop nearly to his collar. Frowning, he reasoned that it was probably best to resurvey the terrain. “Perhaps something with strawberries in, then, or a nice red--”

Crowley waved his hand sharply, cutting Aziraphale off. “He’ll have bourbon.”

“I’ll have... oh. Yes.” Aziraphale smiled with a conceding glance towards Crowley. He cleared his throat, attempting to deepen his voice, and choked softly. “Bourbon sounds delightful. Thank you, my dear.”

“Sure.” The barkeep nodded, pushing aside his blackened bar rag and setting a cloudy shot glass before Aziraphale; he filled it with a quick turn of his wrist. “What brings you boys to Silver City?”

Aziraphale smiled. “We’re here to see the tapestr--” he coughed as Crowley’s elbow dug into his side, immediately catching the unspoken warning that was held within Crowley’s wide, halfway-manic glance. “That is to say... we’re here on busin--”

“Sight-seeing,” Crowley cut in shortly. “Gorges and bats.” He smiled pleasantly, his jaw set as he motioned for a refill.

“Well,” the barkeep said in a hushed voice, smoothing a hand over his apron. “If you’re in need of some company, let me know.”

Although the transition wasn’t crude, Crowley’s smile sank into a scowl. He remained silent, pointing to his glass once more.

After the slightest of pauses, the barkeep complied, his gaze downcast. Crowley stared at the glass for a moment, at last narrowing his eyes as he unflinchingly drained it. “Leave the bottle,” he added.

As the barkeep walked away, Aziraphale could have sworn that he saw him wink.

“Ah.” Aziraphale threw back his own drink with a shudder, pausing to catch his breath before he turned to Crowley. He tugged lightly upon his collar. “Who exactly are you here to meet?”

“A chap called Bonney,” Crowley drawled, shaking his head. “My people are hoping to save him from chartered accountancy or some such. I don’t know what the trouble is, though.” He tapped his fingertips across the bar top, smiling slowly as he continued, “For what it’s worth, he’d be meeting us in the end either way.”


End file.
